Madness in Love
by Colubrina
Summary: With the Order of the Phoenix recast in popular opinion as dangerous, a law is put into effect to have them work off their debt to society via what is termed 'good, honest labor' and it leaves Hermione Granger sitting in Draco Malfoy's parlor as a smirking Ministry official condemns her to be her former enemy's slave. Dramione. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_**There is always some madness in love.**_

 _ **~ Friedrich Nietzsche**_

 **.**

* * *

Voldemort was dead but it didn't matter. Why would it? The Death Eaters controlled the Ministry. The Death Eaters controlled the _Prophet_. It took no effort at all for them to spin the Order of the Phoenix into appearing to be a radical, fringe movement. They're violent, the papers said. They're terrorists.

And the War was over and the populace was ready to believe it. We'll keep you safe, the Death Eaters promised. We'll lock these people away so they can't hurt you anymore.

The Death Eaters, who had quickly returned to their earlier moniker, the Knights of Walpurgis, and who had just as quickly stripped their official platform of anything reeking of blood supremacy because they saw which way the wind was blowing, were not at all saddened by the loss of Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, also known, though only in private and to truly trusted friends, as 'that mad half-blood bastard.' It was convenient of him to die in the Battle they admitted, though, again, only in private. Even more convenient that he'd managed to take down that pesky Potter kid in the process. Potter had been a bit of a hero. He could have been an impediment but instead all they had to face were known blood traitors with unhealthy interests in Muggles, Mudbloods, and elderly schoolmarms who had clearly been led astray by near hero-worship of Albus Dumbledore and, well, everyone knew - thanks to Rita Skeeter - that Dumbledore had had a bit of a past.

He wanted to oppress Muggles, people said in knowing voices to one another over toast and marmalade as they read the _Prophet._ A charismatic man to be sure, but maybe it had been a bad idea to let him be such a strong influence on generations of school children. Not, of course, they said, that I was ever taken in by him.

But those Dumbledore's Army kids. So sad, really. So much promise, all wasted.

And so people tsk-ed and passed one another the marmalade and didn't bat the proverbial eye when Rita Skeeter - because of course it was Rita Skeeter - suggested in an editorial that instead of just sending these Order hooligans off to Azkaban they should be made to repay their debt to society via good, honest labor.

Via slavery.

It was, ironically, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy who objected. Muggles were filth, of course, barely human, and Muggle-borns not much better, but even the lowest witch was not meant for slavery. It was an abomination to put chains on a witch and compel her. Eyebrows were raised at the suggestion of chains. We're not _Muggles_ , people said, we won't be that primitive, as though the actual implement of enslavement were the issue. We'll use magic. Surely something can be found that will keep these terrorists from being a danger to society without having to resort to chains.

The bond the Department of Mysteries developed looked obscenely like a rather wide wedding band. Once slipped on the finger of its victim she, or he, would be compelled to obey the witch or wizard she was bound to and be unable to harm them. It was insidious and vile and brilliant.

When open objections didn't work, the Malfoys began arranging 'placement' of their son's schoolmates and such Order adults as had survived with less psychotic members of the Knights and with other pureblood families who had the influence to buy a slave. It was one to a customer, according to law, and there weren't enough people to go around and so Draco Malfoy, barely of age, and Theodore Nott, equally young, found themselves sitting in one of the smaller parlours at Malfoy Manor as a smirking Ministry official did the bonding spell and slid the wide, metal bands over the fingers of the boys' new possessions, now compelled to work out their debt to society at the direction of their owners.

"Have fun, boys," the man said as he tipped his hat and exited the room.

Theodore looked after him and said the first word he'd uttered since he'd been ushered in by Narcissa Malfoy. "Fucker."

"This is so disgusting," Draco said in agreement as he looked at the bushy-haired witch whose literal chains had been removed after the ring had been put on her hand. She was struggling to get it off, a doomed effort as he was the only one who could remove it.

He watched her fight with it and finally said, "Merlin, would you give it a rest?"

She immediately folded her hands in her lap and stopped wrestling with the symbol of, as well as the enforcement of, her bondage, though the hate in her eyes increased.

"Why don't you two say goodbye," Theodore suggested, hastening to add, "Not an order, not an order!" when Luna Lovegood opened her mouth to follow the instruction. He rubbed at his forehead. "This spell is a little heavier handed than I was led to expect, Draco," he said. He stood and tipped his head sharply toward the corner of the room near the fireplace. "Draco and I will just be over here to give you a little privacy and then we can floo back to my place when you're ready."

Hermione and Luna watched the two boys retreat as far as they could and then fell into one another's arms. Despite the suggestion of privacy, the room was so small their owners could hear every word they said as they told each other to be careful. "This is when you say something obscure and uplifting," Hermione said through tears as she held on to the woman she'd been in a cell with for months. "Something about how you're sure the stars will align to make everything okay."

Well, she'd been in a cell with Luna when she hadn't been alone. Being with Luna had been better. Much better. She'd been alone a lot.

Luna, however, just shook her head at Hermione's request that she be uplifting and obscure, either unable or unwilling to say anything of the sort, and Theo and Draco exchanged tense looks. At last the two women released one another and Luna swallowed hard as she approached the lanky Death Eater's son she hardly knew and he held out his hand.

When the pair of them had flooed away, Draco crossed to the door and jerked his head for Hermione to follow him. "We added a room to my suite for you," he said. "Private bath, too." He shrugged and didn't say anything else and she followed him mutely as he led her through the Manor and up a set of stairs and down a long corridor before he pushed open a door that led to a light-filled parlour. He pointed to a short corridor. "My room's down there," he said. He opened a door along the side wall and gestured for her to proceed him. Unable to not follow instructions, she did. "This is your room," he said, staying in the doorway.

He watched her look around. They'd done their best to make it something she might like, though he hadn't really known her well enough to suggest more than she'd always had a damn bag of books she hauled around everywhere. For all he'd mocked her for her hair and her filthy, disgusting birth, other than that she got good marks and had been one of Potter's closest chums he hadn't even known much about her. Still, they'd done what they could; Narcissa Malfoy didn't approve of enslaving magical people and therefore anyone she protected from the worst abuses of the law she despised would have a pleasant bedroom. There was a large bed, multiple windows, a writing desk and a wall of shelves filled with Muggle and wizarding novels, reference books, and even some poetry. A set of armchairs flanked a small table set in front of a lit fireplace. Hermione seemed to hesitate on the threshold, her eyes darting from the bed to the books to the door that led to the en suite and then back again.

Draco let out a huff of exasperation as she didn't move forward and said, "Hold out your hand, the one with the ring."

The look she gave him said she'd rather disembowel him, preferably slowly, but she obediently held her hand out for him. He tugged the slave ring off and handed it to her. She looked at it in disbelief and began to sag where she stood. Afraid she might actually faint he took a step toward her, stopping when she backed away.

"This," she finally said, "is not what I expected." She took a few steps further into the room - into her room - and added, "It's the same for Luna?"

Draco nodded.

"Cho?" she asked. "Neville? Ron? _Molly_?"

"As far as I know," he said. "I haven't… it's really my parents…." He ran a hand through his hair and finally said with a sigh, "May I come in? Sit down? You probably have a lot of questions."

"You're asking me?" Hermione Granger's lips began to turn up in the first smile he'd seen on them since the Battle of Hogwarts, since she'd been hauled off into temporary detention. "What if I say no?"

"Then I won't come in," he said.

"You _own_ me," she said, her fingers clenching around the ring he'd removed. "I'm your legal possession, like… like… like… a dog or something. Even without this _thing_ on my hand as far as the Ministry is concerned I'm yours, your damned slave."

"I never had a dog so forgive me if I don't know the protocols," Draco said. "In the world I grew up in, you ask permission to enter a person's bedroom and, if they say no, you bugger off."

She sank down into one of the silk covered chairs and set the ring with immense care on the table next to it. "Come in, then," she said. "And tell me what's going on."

Draco sat in the other chair and fumbled with his hands, not sure whether to place them on the armrests or hold them in his lap. "Would you mind if I ordered tea?" he asked at last thinking that if he could hold on to a cup at least he'd stop fidgeting with such obvious nerves. What did you say to a woman you'd taunted for years when you had her suddenly in your power in this way? Sorry about all the bullying, but don't worry because I'm not actually a rapist? At least Theo had never had any real interaction with the looney blonde he'd agreed to shelter; Hermione Granger had no reason to think anything but the worst of him.

"Your wand's in the top drawer of the desk," he finally said after they politely went through the motions of her saying tea would be lovely and him placing an order to the kitchen. He showed her how the Manor's internal floo system worked and she thanked him and her told her to please feel free to order anything she wanted at any time of day. She'd arched her eyebrows at the term 'feel free' and he'd wanted to crawl into a hole in the floor.

Not that his mother would ever have permitted there to be a hole in any of her floors, of course.

"My wand," Hermione Granger almost ran across the room and held onto it with tears coming to her eyes. She turned and looked at him and he feared for a moment she would hex him on the spot but she just blinked away the evidence of her emotional reaction and said, her voice husky, "Thank you."

He looked down at his feet. This was so much harder than he'd anticipated. The tea arrived and he busied his hands with pouring for both of them and asking her how she took hers and adding some milk to her cup. She almost tiptoed back across the room, holding her wand like a treasure she never expected to see again, and not letting go of it even as she lifted her cup and took a sip.

Well, he understood that. He still missed his first wand.

"So," she said at last, "You're the great pureblood savior? Rescuing the downtrodden members of the Order? I guess I'm supposed to be grateful?"

Draco bristled a little. "It could have been Yaxley," he said. "Or Dolohov. Or one of the Carrows."

"Better a kind owner," she said, mockery in her voice.

"If you have to be a slave, yes," he said.

"Oddly," she said, almost drawling as she spoke, "I'd prefer freedom to even the nicest of cages."

He took a deep breath. "I'm sure," he said at last. He stood up. "I'll go. You have the freedom of the Manor and the grounds, but I wouldn't recommend leaving them."

He made it to her door before she stopped him. "Talk to me," she said. "Explain this." There was another one of the long pauses that had woven through their whole conversation. "Why me Malfoy? Why save me?"

He didn't turn at first. "My mother thinks enslaving witches is wrong," he said. "You may not like her - I'm sure you don't - but she has a will of absolute iron. She'd have let you rot in Azkaban, don't get me wrong, but she'd never allow a witch to be a slave." He could feel his shoulders tense as he added, "Especially not to the likes of a monster like Antonin Dolohov."

"Why _me_?"

"Why not?" He let his head tip back and looked up at the ceiling. The plasterers had done a nice job; there were perfect half circles across the whole expanse above him. "She placed people with the adults first. Me, Theo… she put people with us she thought wouldn't… she thought you could endure me, okay? Weasley? Too much history between our families; if I took his ring off, he'd hex first and ask questions later. Most of your lot just hate me but she thought you'd… she thought we could at least be civil to one another, despite your less than stellar blood status and despite my history of being a shite. She knew if I had to actually… if I had to deal with that ring on someone's hand I'd… after Rosmerta in the War and what I did, I can't… Dark curses stain the soul of the person who uses them, did you know that?"

"I didn't," she whispered, interrupting his monologue.

"So she thought you would… just… not kill me if I took the ring off. She thought you'd be that fair."

"Why did you have to take anyone?"

"There aren't enough people she trusts," Draco said. He turned at last to look back at her. She'd set her tea down and was watching him with a frightening intensity. "She and father… they're working behind the scenes to try to get this law rescinded. They can't actually have someone they… too much conflict of interest. So I drew the short straw."

That, oddly enough, made her smile again. "So I'm the short straw, huh?"

"I didn't mean it that way," he muttered, finally deciding to shove his hands into his pockets.

"Your tea is getting cold," she said, and gestured to the chair he'd vacated. She pulled her feet up and curled them under her and set her wand down on the table. It was probably the most blatant symbol of at least short-term trust he'd seen.

He walked back across the room and sat down. "So," he said, back to awkward conversation. "How have you been?"

"Locked up," she said. "Food was bad. It was cold. I was scared. You know, the usual. You?"

Draco gave her a wan smile. "Hunkered down and trying not to think too much, mostly. Food is good, though I feel sick a lot. I take a lot of hot showers. The usual."

"Wanna trade?" she said and he laughed. "How is this going to work?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Well, in theory you have the freedom of the house and grounds. We can floo over to Theo's and you visit Luna if you want. I wouldn't recommend wandering too much, though, or going over there if I don't get an all-clear first, because if someone is over who is, uh, not - "

"If the wrong person sees I'm not wearing that _thing_ \- "

"It could be bad, right."

They looked at one another. "I guess it's a nice cage," she said at last, looking around the room. "Better than my last one."

"I'm sorry," he said.

She looked down and said the last thing he expected to hear. "Will you keep me company, at least?"

"If you want," he said carefully. "I don't want to impose."

"I…." Hermione Granger trailed off her words and then tried to speak again. "In the cell," she said. "I started to be afraid of… this sounds so stupid but - "

"I understand being afraid," Draco said softly. "The Dark Lord lived in my house for a long time."

She nodded. "I just hate being alone now." She said the words so softly he almost didn't hear them.

"Better even me than solitude?" he asked. When she nodded again without speaking he reached a finger out touched the back of her hand. "That's something I can do," he said. He made a face she missed because she was still looking away. "I know you hate me but I can… it's not like I have anything to do so I'm at your beck and call."

"Irony," she observed. He saw her looking at the ring and he picked it up and violently threw it across the room. "You don't like having a slave?" she asked.

"I've had several," he muttered. "The Imperius Curse… no, I don't like it."

It was her turn to reach out and touch his hand. "Do you want to tell me about it?" she asked.

. . . . . . . . . .

 **A/N - This is part of my daft project to write at least a drabble for every major dramione trope. This one, obviously, is slave!hermione.**

 **It is fully rough drafted and there will be four chapters.**


	2. Chapter 2

Draco did want to talk. He sat with Hermione Granger, of all people, and talked until the pot of tea was gone and they'd ordered a second one and he told her about how afraid he'd been, about how he'd learned to hold another person's will in his hands and mind and make them do anything he wanted, about how that had left smudges at the edge of his soul, how he felt like he was dirty and would never get clean again. "It should be me wearing that ring," he muttered at last, looking away from her and out one of the windows of her rose and cream room into the darkening night. "I'm the one who committed crimes, not you."

"No one should wear that thing," she said.

He gave her a bitter half-smile. "If you really understood what I've done, you wouldn't say that," he said.

She searched his face and then shook her head. "No one," she said again. Then, "I'm hungry."

"What do you want?" he asked her.

She shrugged. "Not watery soup?" she suggested. "Not hard rolls?"

"Is that all you ate?" he asked. He'd known they hadn't exactly been keeping the detainees in luxury, but thin soup and bread seemed ridiculous.

"Every third day there was fruit," she said, then sighed. "At least I think it was every third day. Sometimes it was hard to keep track of the passing of time because things ran together."

He ordered a richer soup and some of the cakes he'd liked as a boy and when the food arrived he watched her eat. She took about three bites before she frowned at him. "You aren't eating," she said.

"Everything tastes like metal," he said. "It's hard to care."

"You have to eat," she objected. She nudged him, reaching her foot across the thick carpet to poke at him. "Food is necessary to life." He shrugged and lifted his spoon, ate one mouthful, then put it back down. As usual, his stomach rebelled and he felt a wave of mild nausea. He knew intellectually she was right so, under her scrutiny, he sighed and picked up the spoon again and took another bite. "Is it that bad?" she asked. He didn't answer, just forced another mouthful of soup into his system and reminded himself that he never really threw up, it just felt like he would.

She took another bite and set her spoon down and began to tell him a story about Luna in detention. She'd stop every few sentences to have some of the soup but she spun the yarn out until he'd eaten the whole bowl, distracted from the wretched act of having to put food in his mouth by the sound of her voice and the anecdotes about the girl now living in a room similar to this one in Nott Manor.

When he realized he was done, realized he'd eaten a full meal, he pulled his napkin off his lap and folded it too neatly and set it next to his bowl. "Your friend is quite the character," he said.

"Cake?" she said, breaking the sweet in half with her hands and holding one piece out to him.

He took it and said, with exaggerated courtesy, "Thank you, Miss Granger."

"Oh," she said, equally formal. "I think you can call me Hermione. If these circumstances don't permit the use of our given names, I can't think of what would."

He took a bite of the cake and felt his mouth rebel at the sugary taste; he grimaced at the tingles he felt across his tongue and palate and set it down. He began wiping the frosting off his fingers. "You must call me Draco, then," he said, "Since we are being informal."

She ate her half of the cake and he nudged his toward her. She glanced at him as if for permission before picking it up. "This is so good," she said as she finished it. "Is this what your mother used to send you at school every day?"

He smiled a little wistfully at the memory of those days as she licked her fingers in childish greed. She flushed when she saw him watching her and began to stop and went to wipe her fingers on the napkin but he grabbed her wrist and held her hand back to her mouth. "Don't let me deprive you," he said. "I used to do that too."

She began to smile and pushed her hand to his mouth and, with a sudden, unexpected bit of coquetry, said, "You do it." He pulled away and was about to decline when she added, this time with malice and a challenge, "Unless I'm too filthy to touch. Mudblood and all."

He tightened his grip on her wrist and with careful deliberation licked every bit of remaining sugar from her hand, ignoring the way his stomach revolted at the sweetness. Then he picked up his own napkin and dried her hand. "Do you want to play 'How prejudiced is Draco'?" he asked her as he wiped her skin. "Because the answer is 'very' and 'not at all' at the same time. Because the answer is every unthinking part of my mind recoils from you because I was taught you were filth from before I could understand what blood purity meant, and every thinking part tells me that's absurd, that you're a better person than I am." He put her hand down on the little table that had been set with their meal and pushed his chair back. He sighed and rubbed at his face and wished the queasy turmoil in his middle would go away.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. I'm a shite."

She took a deep breath. "This is hard," she said.

He nodded. "If there is anything I can do to make it easier," he began. He started to rise and she shrank back in her chair.

"Don't go," she said. She sounded panicked. He sank back down and stared at her. "I'm sorry," she said again. "Please don't go."

"What happened to you when you were alone?" he asked.

She looked away and he assumed she was going to tell him the worst, but she said, the words breaking a little, "Not that. Not what you're thinking. Just… stinging hexes. Just little things. But hit someone every time they're alone and they'll… I know it's not rational."

"And when Luna was there?"

"No one wanted witnesses," she said. "Not even worthless terrorist witnesses, so if someone else were there - and awake - it was okay."

"You aren't a worthless terrorist," he said. He knew that was what the masses had been told, knew that was the justification for the wretched law that had landed her almost literally in his lap but it was still jarring to hear her say it. Still horrible. Horrible that she was so afraid.

"No, not a terrorist," she said, the words just as soft as his had been. "I'm a slave."

He response felt like a slap and he thought that he should be angry or offended or resentful that he'd done everything he could to set this room up to be as pleasant as possible and she still threw her slavery - slavery he didn't want anymore than she did - in his face. Instead he felt sad and guilty and he slipped out of his chair and pulled her into a careful embrace. "I wish I could make it better," he said. "I can't. All I can do is give you a space with very fluffy towels and a bunch of Muggle books. I hope we got the good ones; for all I know they're the equivalent of Lockhart's trash."

She rested her forehead against his shoulder and said only, "Fluffy towels are pretty great." She tipped her head so she could look at the crowded shelves and asked, "How'd you get the Muggle books anyway?"

"I went to a bookshop," he said, trying to make it sound like going out into Muggle London, going to a Muggle shop, and buying a bunch of books from people who'd looked at him like he was some kind of cretin when he'd asked questions about their paper money had been something he did every day. "Why? How would you have done it?"

"That was… how nice of you," she said.

Draco felt a sad smile creep over his face. "Nothing but the best for - ." He started to say 'my girl' , something he would have said without thinking to Pansy or his mum, but realized the use of the possessive was too accurate to be appropriate and snapped his mouth shut. "Maybe you'd like to see them," he said at last. "The towels, I mean." That sounded suggestive and he cringed. "Or the books. The books."

After being in a cell it seemed she cared more about new clothes and running water than reading material, and she began exploring the closets Narcissa had filled for her and the bathroom and he gave her privacy for that but lingered in her bedroom, his fingers trailing across the spines of the Muggle books he'd never even opened, just pulled from bags and put on the shelves in no order at all. They must have scrubbed her clean and thrown her in something new before presenting her to him as some kind of a toy but he doubted, now that he considered it, that that had been anything but humiliating. Given how much time he'd been spending lately standing in hot showers as if that could wash away all the things he'd done - all the things he'd been through - he was surprised she hadn't locked herself into the bathroom as soon as he'd pointed it out to her.

He could hear her running water and he waited and he could hear the water stop and he waited and he could hear the door open and he turned and there she was, dressed now in something his mum had picked out. What limited ease they'd come to over dinner had leeched away and she seemed unsure again. "Just tell me if you want me to go," he said.

She hesitated before she went and sat on her bed and pulled her knees up. "Talk to me," she said.

"What about?" he asked.

"Not the War," she said.

"Quidditch?" he asked. That got her to roll her eyes and mutter something about how was it that all boys cared about the same one thing. The urge to tell her what that one thing was that all boys cared about was strong; the words were almost on the tip of his tongue before he considered how, if calling her 'my girl' was inappropriate given that he did technically own her, pointing out that sex was the one thing she could count on all boys caring about, not Quidditch, was beyond inappropriate.

Merlin, considering what Dolohov would have made any slave he'd gotten his hands on do made him feel sick again and he doubted his imagination would even begin to encompass what that bastard would have come up with.

"Not Quidditch," she said.

He sat on the edge of the bed and said, "Potions recipes?"

"Now you're just trying to be difficult."

So he sat first at the edge of the bed and talked and then he was leaning up against the headboard, his shoes pushed off and left on her floor, and he was still talking. She'd said not about the War but that was what he had. That was what was there in his brain and his skin and his soul and his words were about the war and when he talked about being afraid she nodded. When he talked about choking on fear and despair and the realization he'd backed himself into a world he hated but there was nothing he could do except keep putting one foot in front of the other and never look up, never let himself see what was really happening, she listened. When he talked about lying on the floor of a bathroom, cursed by her best friend and bleeding to death and how he'd thought that that was better, that at least he wasn't afraid anymore, she reached over and took his hand.

"I hate this," he said at last. "I hate that you're here, trapped. I hate that I won and I hate that I'm grateful I'm not the one in the hell you're in and I hate that I can' t - "

She reached over and put her hand over his mouth. "It's okay," she said.

"It's not," he said.

"No," she agreed. "But right now it's a lot better than I thought it was going to be this morning."

He leaned his head back against her headboard. "You must have been terrified."

She shrugged. "Numb, really. Just put one foot in front of the other."

He nodded.

"Talk to me about Quidditch after all," she said. "Something happy."

So he did. He talked about learning to fly and about how his father had spent hours in the back gardens holding his broom while he tried to soar and failed. He talked about the way his father had cheered the first time he'd sailed from one end of the grass to the other on his own. He talked and talked and at some point she leaned against him, yawning, and he made her get under the covers. At some point he got under them too, still dressed, but shivering against the night chill. And then he was asleep and when he woke in the midnight darkness she had moved against him and he had wrapped an arm around her in sleep and he thought she and Luna had probably slept as closely as they could to stay warm in detention and tightened his grip on her.

On his slave.

After the War, after the Dark Lord had died he'd thought he'd never have to hold another person's soul in his keeping again. He'd begged his mother not to make him do this but she'd been relentless and no one said no to Narcissa Malfoy. This method of enslaving someone was worse, somehow, than the Imperius. He'd always felt that itching at his brain, demanding attention. You never forgot you had captured another person's will and it ate at you.

Well, it had eaten at him.

It still ate at him.

This ring, though, he hadn't even felt it and she'd responded to even gestured potential orders like a puppet. He shuddered and buried his face in her hair as he lay in her bed, grateful now that his mother had forced the issue. He fell back asleep wrapped around her.


	3. Chapter 3

When Draco woke, he realized sleeping in clothes could be uncomfortable, that he had an erection, that his breath was probably wretched, and that Hermione was awake and hadn't extricated herself from his grip. He sprang back from her in the bed, almost falling off the edge in his haste to release her. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean… I just… it was late and I was tired and - "

"I'm sorry," she said, looking a rather enchanting combination of mischievous and worried. "I probably shouldn't have kept you. I'm not usually this clingy, it's just -"

"You've had a rough time," he said. He looked her over. She was, he had to admit, by any objective measure a disaster. Her hair stuck out in all directions and the pajamas his mother had purchased for her were too large and had gotten twisted in the night and she was trying to straighten them out and the more she fussed at them the worse they got. He had to suppress a smile at how utterly ordinary she looked.

She saw his smirk and scowled at it, then reached over and mussed his hair until it fell in his eyes.

"Hey!" he protested, shoving it back from his face with a hand. But her smug look of innocent mischief got broader and she moved to do it again and he reached over and tugged on hers and she pounced forward and he realized she was almost straddling him, pinning him to the pillows at the same moment she did.

She rapidly pulled away and sat up. "Breakfast?" she asked.

He ran a hand over his face where he lay and scrubbed at the stubble with a grimace. "Can I leave you long enough to get cleaned up?" he asked. She nodded and he stumbled away, back to his room, back to his own bath, back to hot water that scalded and washed away and he tried to scour away the feeling of controlling another person's life. It didn't work, of course, but at least he felt like he had regathered his own equilibrium. He tried not to think about the different way her laughter and their quick tussle over his hair had unsettled him; nothing good could come of that. When he returned she'd gotten dressed, ordered breakfast, and was making the bed. She made a quick, convulsive movement when he opened the door and he could hear her inhalation of breath from across the room.

"It's just me, he said.

"I know," she said. "I'm just… jumpy."

He saw she'd retrieved the ring from where he'd thrown it the night before and left it on the nightstand and made a face. "Hermione - " he began.

"It's nothing," she said. "You got some good books. And - "

"You don't need to make the bed," he said. "If we just go out to the main room everything will get cleaned up by magic."

"I - " she began.

"Not the main house," he promised. "Just to the main room of the suite. After breakfast. With me." She looked around the room and made a bit of a shaky nod. "You're turn to talk," he said. "You can read me one of the books." An impish smile began to tug at her lips so he added, "Prove that Muggle writers are any good."

She mock scowled at that but he was glad he'd teased her out of her nerves and hoped that whatever book she picked would be bearable. Later, though, if you'd asked him what she'd read he wouldn't have been able to tell you. He remembered her picking the book out. He knew it had a blue cover. But what he remembered from that first full day he spent with Hermione Granger was that they sat on the sofa, her back pressed against his chest and her hair in his face as though she wanted to be as close to him as possible. He remembered the way that hair smelled and the way it tickle his nose and how he kept sneezing until he pinned it all out the way with a sticking charm. He remembered the way she shivered when she heard the elves moving in the other room and how he murmured, "They're just cleaning," in her ear. He remembered the sound of her voice and how thin she felt when he wrapped his arms around her but should could have been reading the same sentence over and over again for all he could recall of the story.

They ate lunch and she did that thing where she distracted him until he'd eaten the whole plate of food and he smiled at her. 'You're good," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, pulling her napkin off her lap and folding it next to her plate.

"Thank you," he said. He tried to coax her out of the suite to walk in the gardens but she began to retreat back to her room, murmuring things about maybe she would just read and he realized, with a shock, that he wanted her company as much as she wanted his. She made the darkness lighter. The idea of an afternoon away from her made him miserable.

To be honest, he didn't think she wanted his company. She just didn't want to be alone and he was who was available. He wanted hers, however, really wanted it, and he didn't want her to just disappear back into her room and leave him adrift. A malevolent voice licking at the back of his brain whispered he could just put the ring back on her hand. If he did that she'd go for a walk and listen to him and keep his demons at bay because she wouldn't have any choice.

His shudder at that thought must have been visible because she frowned and asked what the matter was.

"It's nothing," he said. At her steady look he made a face and said, "The… doing Black Arts just… you aren't right afterward. Sometimes I have thoughts that are… not good." He managed to conjure his familiar sneer. "Surely you noticed most of the Death Eaters ended up what one might call 'not well'"

She nodded slowly and approached him, studying his face. "I'd assumed they started out that way," she admitted. "Or that Azkaban helped them along. You say - "

"You can't do magic like that without being tainted by it. I told you that."

"And it's still there?" She sounded horrified, a sensible response.

"Oh yes," he tried to sound as nonchalant as he could. She wasn't fooled. "It's as the edges of my mind," he said at last. "Like a dream you've forgotten but then you see something and it's there again, back whispering to you about what you can do."

"What is it whispering now?" She laid her hand along his arm and he wanted to collapse but he was quite sure as soon as he told her what his personal insanity suggested he do she'd bolt back into her room and bar the door.

"That I could make you go outdoors with me," he said. "That I could put that ring back on your hand and you'd walk at my side all afternoon."

She didn't run, though, and his respect for the foolish idiocy of all Gryffindors increased. "It wouldn't be real, though," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that!" The words exploded out of him. He tore himself away from her touch that burned along his arm. "That thing is disgusting!"

She took a deep breath. "I think we should go to the library." He stared at her; that was not what he'd expected. "You do have a library in this pretentious house, right?" He made a quiet sound of assent. The Malfoy library was almost legendary; generations of magicians had added to it. "Then let's go see what we can find about how Dark magic affects the soul and what we can do to fix it."

"You want to fix me?" he asked. He could feel the words in his mouth but even as he shaped the words they made no sense. He'd done the curses. He'd done them. There was no returning from that.

"Are you coming?" was all she said as she walked toward the door of his - their - suite.

He had to go with her, of course. She'd have wandered the halls for an hour and not found the right room if he hadn't helped her and who knew what foul examples of humanity were over consulting with his father about policy. He showed her the main room and watched her take in the space. She declared it impressive and he snorted and led her to the warren of smaller rooms with specific collections. The place was kept magically dust free and humidity levels were controlled and it was all sorts of wonderful if you were into research which, after the hell of trying to figure out how to fix a broken magical object with doom hanging over his head, he never planned to be again.

Hermione Granger, he was not surprised to see, liked research. She appeared to like it quite a bit as she became more at ease within her own skin as soon as she was surrounded by books that should have the answer to the comparatively straightforward problem of his polluted soul. He supposed his soul was easier to contemplate than her own captivity; his soul was something she could solve.

She began perusing the unique cataloguing system, muttering things about the illogical minds of wizards, and had soon located a section of the shelves she deemed most likely to have things that would help them. Draco sat and watched her, his chin cradled in his hand, as she pulled one text after another off the shelf and flipped through the pages. She'd put two aside, intending to give them a closer look later, when Lucius Malfoy entered their section of the library.

"Draco," he said. "Miss Granger." He nodded to her and assessed where she was standing. "Might I inquire what, exactly, you are looking for? I might be able to direct you more quickly. Some of those books can be quite dangerous."

Draco could see Hermione brace her shoulders against his father and began to rise from his seat to try to control the conversation and protect her, but she just said, her tone neutral, that they were looking to understand the long term effect use of Dark magic had on a person. "Other than the obvious issues of horcruxes, of course."

Lucius look from the girl to Draco, still half out of his seat, and back again. "I see," he said. "I am not sure you'll find any text that explicates that. I fear that most people who do Dark magic end up no longer capable of doing any kind of analytic work."

"So it does make you crazy," Hermione said.

Lucius nodded. "It can," he said. "Or so recent experience suggests to me. Some are more susceptible than others, of course." His eyes flickered, as if against his will, to his son. "And it seems to depend how deeply you delve into them."

"What's the cure," Hermione asked. There was a long pause and Draco could hear a bird calling outside as he waited, frozen. Was it really going to be this easy? His father didn't say anything, however, he just looked at Hermione as if considering something for the first time. She spoke again, even more of a challenge in her voice this time. "You're sane, and don't tell me you didn't sample everything from the buffet of evil Voldemort set out. What did you do?"

"I didn't sample quite everything," Lucius said to her. "I never made a horcrux, for example." He smiled. "Weren't you one of Dumbledore's pets? I'd think you already would know the answer." He looked over at Draco and nodded. "Son." Then he swept back out through the door and Hermione looked after him, her mouth gaping open.

"So there is an answer," she said in astonishment, "but he's just not going to tell us?" She almost stamped her foot. "More riddles. Why is it always riddles and mind games with wizards? They can never just say, 'Here's what you have to do.' No, it's always trickery and - " She stopped and made an inarticulate sound of frustration.

Draco laughed. This may have been a mistake as she turned and glared at him. "It's your brain we're trying to fix, Malfoy! I didn't go and cast any Imperius curses!"

He stood up and held his hands out to placate her. "I know. I'm a shite." He put on his best puppy dog eyes. "Can we go and walk in the garden now? It's a beautiful day and I want to go outside."

She huffed and then said, "Maybe we could have an early tea outdoors?"

"We could do that," he agreed.

"And you would eat it."

He couldn't control the smile. "Are you always this bossy?"

She rolled her eyes. "Honestly. You made fun of me for years and yet you never noticed that?"

"Your hair was a pretty easy target," he said.

"And my birth."

He'd been holding out his arm so he could lead her out to the garden and he dropped it. "Right, he said. "And that."

"Like what a stuck up prat you were," she said. "On my end. And the ferret thing."

"Except I still am a stuck up prat," he said. "I am, however, I'm pleased to say, not a ferret."

"I'm still a Mudblood."

He took a deep breath and held his arm back out. "Your hair got better though," he said. "Turns out I cared more about that." He waited, counting heartbeats, until she put her hand on his arm.

"My hair didn't really get better," she said. "You just see it differently."

. . . . . . . . . .

 ** _A/N - My apologies. This breaks down more gracefully into 5 chapters than 4, so that is how I'll publish it._**


	4. Chapter 4

Draco led Hermione to his favorite of the small, walled gardens. His mother, and generations of Malfoy wives before her, had had a tendency to carve the property up into little niches where they could create whatever they pleased with plants and dirt. His mother had added a variety of notice-me-not spells to the walls of this one and even Hermione seemed confused he was leading her toward a small shed until he pushed the door open and the illusion shimmered and fell and the garden path was laid out before them.

"Your work?" she asked, half in wonder.

"My mother's," he said, wishing he could take credit for the spell-work that had so impressed the witch. "It's a safe place so long as no one sees you push the door open. It's not warded, people just - "

"Don't see it," Hermione nodded.

"You will, now," he said, "See it, I mean," but she'd already taken a few steps away from him and was looking around the first section of the garden. He smiled. This was, by far, the most visually stunning. The showiest of flowers all stretched their petals toward the sky, magic keeping them all in bloom at once, seasons be damned. "Sight," he murmured.

"What?" Hermione spun and looked at him.

"It's a sensory garden," Draco said. "This section is sight."

"It's beautiful," she admitted.

"Come," he took her arm again and led her past the stunning beds with their conventionally stunning flowers. While this section was dramatic it was his least favorite and he wanted to see her reaction to the others. They turned a corner in the path and moved past the cleverly placed statuary and flowering tree to enter - "

"Taste?" she asked. Blackberry brambles reached their prickly limbs out and apple trees espaliered along wall beckoned. Mint and thyme filled the beds and even a tomato plant drooped with heavy, red fruit. This section of the garden resisted taming and for all that a neat brick path wove through it it remained somehow wild.

He loved it.

Hermione turned in a circle and, her eyes asking for permission, reached out and plucked a blackberry off and popped it into her mouth. He grinned and picked a handle of the fruit and held them out for her and, one at a time, she ate them. She hesitated with the last one in her fingers and then took a step so she was closer to him and held it to his lips. He inhaled at the flirtatious gesture and could see her eyes become guarded again; consumed by a desire to get her to smile again he took the black fruit with his teeth and ate it. His stomach roiled and he couldn't control the slight thinning of his lips at the familiar sensation. He could tell she saw it but she didn't draw attention to it for which he was grateful. His mother, whom he adored enough to take on Hermione Granger, always commented, always pushed more food at him.

"So," Hermione said, "that's taste."

"Right," Draco said.

"Is the next one sound?"

They could hear the chimes of some of the elements of the sound garden, soft and melodic, but Draco shook his head. "Scent," he said.

The path turned and they followed it and, as promised, the air became heavy with the perfume of perfect roses and purple lavender. Hermione shook her head. "Too much," she said. "I'll get a headache."

"I do have pain potions," Draco said, but she'd hurried on to the fourth and last section and sat down on a stone bench by the fountain. The water ran down, falling from one tipped jar to another, and the wind chimes hung from branches adding their music. Hermione waved him to the bench.

"Sound, I take it," she said.

"And texture," Draco said, pulling a soft lamb's ear leaf off and handing it to her. "Touch."

She ran her fingers along the fuzzy leaf and sighed with something that sounded almost like contentment. "This feels safe," she said.

"It feels furry," he corrected her and she gave him an annoyed look for his trouble, one that tilted and spun and shifted, however, until she looked charmed and amused and Draco felt something lurch inside him and that thing that had lurched shifted and tilted and settled down into a new place. It was a new place that made her lips seem far more interesting than he'd ever thought Hermione Granger's lips could be. He was considering reaching a hand out to touch them when a voice carried over the wall of the garden and he froze.

Rodolphus-fucking-Lestrange. One of the many people who had managed not to die, proof, Draco thought, that there was no such thing as karma. In any just world, Rodolphus Lestrange would have choked to death on a chicken bone while the mad wife he'd perversely adored laughed in glee. Instead he wandered the grounds of Malfoy Manor, far more coherent than he had any right to be; Draco wondered if the man left a trail of slime behind him like a snail.

"Where's little Drakey?" the man was asking.

"Oh, boys." It was Lucius, his coldest, most amused, most patrician voice on. "You know how they are. He just got his newest toy and I assume he's off examining it in detail."

Rodolphus laughed. Draco could almost picture the spittle flying from the man's mouth and running down his chin. "I thought you and Cissy were against Dolores Umbridge's little scheme," he said.

"Oh we are," Lucius said. "That woman couldn't fathom good policy if you explained one to her in small words. She's nothing but a social climber and I despise everything of that sort. But, well, there are policy opinions and then there are gifts for your child."

Draco looked at Hermione. She had managed to shrink in on herself. He took a hand and she flinched away from his touch but he didn't let go, just squeezed reassuringly, and she shuddered but didn't yank her fingers away.

"Draco wanted a playmate?" Rodolphus leered.

"Like a training broom for an eventual proper wife," Lucius said. "You need to learn on something where it doesn't matter if you break it and, frankly, he's had a bit of a rough year. The Dark Lord expected a lot from him and, well, he delivered but now he's a bit peaked. Anything to perk him back up."

At that Hermione stood up and crossed away from Draco, nearly hunching over. He waited in silence broken by the sound of the fountain and the wind chimes and the footsteps of his father and that cretin walking away and then he said, "It's not like that."

She didn't respond to the reassurance, just said, the words almost strangled in her throat, "What happened to everyone else?"

Draco closed his eyes for a long moment before he opened them again and answered her. "I don't know what happened to everyone. I know everyone is safe; no one's with a monster like that… monster… you heard. What I know… Luna is with Theo. You know that. The Weasleys - one of them had a French wife - "

"Bill," Hermione said.

"Right. The pair of them fled back to France and the rest… everyone who took custody of a Weasley has made a trip to France too and - "

"They're all okay?" She nearly whispered the words, hope and disbelief fighting for dominance. "They aren't… they aren't hiding in gardens and… they're okay, really okay?"

Draco nodded though, still turned away from him, she couldn't see the gesture.

"Even Ginny?" she asked. "Even…." She seemed to break down and then took a deep breath and tried again. "Even Ron?"

Draco felt a hard stab of something unexpected and unwelcome in his chest. Of course she was worried about her stupid… they'd been a _thing_. All he said was, "As far as I know they're all safely away." He pressed his lips together and added, with a bitterness that surprised him. "I know you two were - "

"We weren't," she said, cutting him off. "It… we were friends. Me and him and Harry. Best friends. That was all."

"I thought - "

"You thought wrong." The words were short and sharp and hard.

Draco suspected he didn't think quite as wrong as she'd like to believe. He might be broken but he'd grown up with snakes and liars and been fired in a kiln filled with Death Eaters and psychopaths and if the pressure had, in the end, made him sad and lost and riddled with cracks instead of hard, he'd still learned to read body language along the way and, unless he was very, _very_ mistaken, she missed Ron so much she thought she'd die of it.

"It…" She was going on. "It was never… sometimes I wanted more and sometimes he wanted more but those times never happened at the same time and then your people threw us all into cells and… he's a maybe that never…" She stopped talking and bent further over until she was nearly doubled on the walkway, gasping and trying not to cry with what Draco suspected was both relief and loss. When he approached her and put a hand on her back she made a horrible, choking sound and then turned and hung on to him as though he were a lifeline.

"I could take you there," he said as she buried her face in his shoulder. "To France, I mean." To Ron Weasley, he meant.

She stilled at that offer. Draco was already starting to consider how he'd go about that - the number of Order members who 'escaped' in France had started to make some of the less pleasant powers-that-be suspicious - when he heard her say, "But then… who will help you?"

"Help me do what?" he asked.

"What's kept your father sane?" she asked him, "when so many of them… when using Dark magic… there has to be an answer. I can't leave you until we find out what will - "

"Fix me?" he asked. He let her go and she wiped at her face while he looked away. "Nothing is going to fix me, Granger - "

"Hermione," she said. "First names, remember?"

" - I'm just going to be haunted and polluted forever."

"No," she said. "Ron is safe and you… you saved me from people like _that_ \- "

Draco was fairly sure she was referring to Rodolphus Lestrange. Just the thought of that not-quite-mad bugger made him shudder and he'd never faced being left at that man's mercy.

" - and I owe you and I can't just not find out what will keep you from going as mad as the rest of them. Draco…"

He swallowed. "Granger - Hermione - I think I just have to stop doing Dark magic, which, as I have no intention of ever doing any again isn't a problem; I won't get any worse. I don't think there's any way to undo - "

"There is," she said. "Your father's sane - a bit of an arse, if you want my honest opinion, but sane - and was dropping coy little hints in the library that the answer has to do with Dumbledore. There has to be a way to…to… to mitigate - "

"My soul?" Draco shook his head. "With what? Remorse? I've got enough of that for a the whole lot of us. I think - "

"No, you don't," Hermione said.

"I'm not the boy people help," Draco said. He let his eyes rest on one of the peacocks who had wandered into the garden and appeared to be eyeing the fountain. "Let me take you to France before I give in to the whispers in my head and put that ring back on your hand and make you… I'm not a _saint,_ Granger. I'm a disease, and you are very, very pretty."

She lay a hand alongside his cheek and he turned to look at her. "You aren't," she said. "And I will. And thank you. You can take me to France once we've figured it out."

Draco leaned into that hand and felt the sly suggestions in his brain he could make her stay, he could possibly even order her to never think of Ron Weasley again, fade at that touch. "I'll just end up infecting you with my own problems," he said.

"I think I'll be okay," she said. The peacock let out a shriek and Hermione almost jumped at the nearly human sound and then glanced with obvious nerves at the wall of the garden. "Do you think we can get back inside without running into - "

"I'll make sure of it," Draco said. The idea to get tea had long fled. All he cared about now was getting her into the house without that mad Lestrange seeing her, running his leering eyes all over her. All he cared about now was protecting her.


	5. Chapter 5

The day marched on its path and the sun slipped away and they ate another dinner together and then Draco hesitated, unsure whether he should leave, unsure whether he was welcome to stay. Despite her request he use her given name, he'd been calling her Granger, if unintentionally, all afternoon.

Granger was the girl he'd despised for years for her birth and her cleverness and her skill with her fist. Granger was nothing but a slave he'd unwillingly agreed to shelter. Granger he could despise.

Hermione, however, had refused to leave, had refused his offer of freedom with the Weasleys, had, instead, insisted she'd find out how to quiet the demons in his head. Hermione was a fool and an idiot and Hermione shook when she was afraid he was going to leave her alone and so he climbed back into bed with Hermione and, gingerly wrapping his arms around her, began to tell her what stories he remembered from children's story books.

Hermione he was unable to despise.

It was so much safer to call her Granger.

She seemed to not be paying attention to him and he thought she might be falling asleep when she reached a hand over to him and, laying it along one cheek, murmured, "What if the answer is sex?"

Draco had to blink several times because the comment was so incongruous. He'd been retelling, and badly, a fairy tale about a witch who turned herself into a frog and was unable to remember how to get back and so spent 100 years in a pond, and, unless Granger had a thing about amphibians he'd rather not explore in detail, the answer to the witch's problem was most certainly not sex.

"Your parents surely have sex," she continued, the tone turning up at the end into a question and he nodded, a bit unwillingly. He'd learned to not only knock on his parents' door but wait to be invited to enter because to do otherwise was to risk too much knowledge. "And I doubt that Vold - that thing did," she continued, stopping her use of his name when Draco visibly flinched.

The Dark Lord had very much preferred to be called 'Dark Lord' or 'my Lord' and lapses had been punished.

"No, probably not," Draco said. The idea of the Dark Lord - that thing, as Granger had called him, a moniker Draco intended to adopt - having even the least pleasant intercourse imaginable was oddly hilarious, and Draco found himself wondering if the man's penis had gone the way of his nose during his resurrection.

"And he was crazy," she said.

"Oh, yes." Draco had no doubt a mind Healer would have had a lifetime's work ahead of him if the Dark L - that thing - had permitted such attentions.

"So maybe sex is the secret that keeps people sane," Granger suggested.

Draco looked at the woman he'd been holding on to as he sat next to her on her bed. She'd tied her hair back to help keep it out of his face and was wearing a pair of soft, oversized pajamas his mother had left in a drawer, and she looked scrubbed and curious and fairly adorable. Her eyes sparkled when she was considering an idea, even one as ridiculous as this.

"I doubt it," he said at last, letting go of the brief but very pleasant fantasy of letting her try her hand at curing him that way.

She got a mulish thrust to her jaw and before she could accuse him of not being interested because she was Muggle-born Draco added, "A number of the Death Eaters were rather… active… in that area. And not the sane ones either." She looked like she didn't believe anyone like Alecto Carrow could have found a partner and Draco said, "Not the type of sex I'd like to talk about, but - "

He could see in her eyes when she realized what he meant. She pulled her hand off his cheek and he could see her simultaneously curse herself for her stupidity, flush in embarrassment at what had, after all, been a proposition, and flinch in fear.

"Not me," he said as quickly as he could. "I never… but, yes. They did."

He stopped and turned away from her so she wouldn't see the flush of shame on his own face. He'd been a part of this movement, after all. Its sins were his.

He felt her fingers touch the back of his neck and he shivered. She ran them right at the edge of his hairline, running them in and out of his fine hair and he could feel goose pimples rise all along his skin and frisson of longing run down his spine. He waited for the whispering voices to tell him he could just take what he wanted but they never came and the relief from that insidious pressure led him to turn back to look at the woman. At Hermione.

She put both hands on his face this time and leaned over and settled a kiss first at one side of his mouth and then the other. "You," she whispered against his skin, "are so much more than I had ever taken you for."

"I'm not," he said even as he wished he were.

"You are," she disagreed. She slid her hands back along his neck until she was brushing up against the same spot she'd been touching moments before and it felt like fire.

Draco leaned his forehead down against hers. "What are you doing?" he asked. "You don't have to do this. We aren't friends, we aren't… you can't possibly see me as desirable and even if you did this… you're stuck in this horrible nightmare the Ministry dreamt up. What do you want from me?"

She sat back and brushed a lock of hair that had fallen forward over his eyes back. "I think we're friends," she said. "If we aren't - ." She stopped talking and swallowed. "Are we friends?"

"I'd like to be," he said. "But - "

"Then we are," she said. She shivered. "Stay," she asked.

"I can do that," he said.

"Kiss me," she said.

"Why?" he asked her in desperation because he wanted to, oh how he wanted to, but he was afraid she was trying to bargain her way into safety and he couldn't do that, wouldn't do that. He felt dirty enough, smudged at the edges, and there were lines he didn't want to ever cross.

"It's less lonely," she said. "To touch another person makes it less frightening."

Draco had a sudden, unwelcome, tantalizing image of her and Luna curled up together, hands and mouths on one another in their prison cell, and had to force his mind to anything else lest he shove evidence of his arousal at that idea up against her. He swallowed hard and said only, "I don't want to take advantage of you. I'm not… I don't want to be a… a…."

He couldn't even say the word, despite having witnessed it often enough - or maybe because he'd witnessed it often enough and had seen the look of broken devastation on the faces of the bodies underneath rutting Death Eaters - and she stopped him from having to by looking at him with those eyes and saying, "You wouldn't be. You won't be."

He tucked an arm around her at that and brushed his mouth over hers. She seemed to be fighting back tears and she leaned her forehead up against his and he whispered, lost and unsure, "Hermione?" She didn't say anything, just shook her head a little and pressed her lips back to his, then to the side of his mouth, then to the line of his jaw. He made a little sound at that and she nuzzled him, then began kissing down the line of his throat. He held on tighter and let her take the lead, let her kiss him until his body ached, let her be the one to return her mouth to his. Then he parted his lips and let his fingers grip onto her with more force, waiting to see if she pushed away but instead she made a soft sigh that sounded content and sank into him and opened her mouth under his. Draco eased them down so instead of sitting up against the head board they were lying down and they kissed until exhaustion after an emotionally fraught day pulled them away and into sleep. The thought, "I love you," that tickled at the edge of Draco's mind woke him enough for him to think with his rational self that that was ridiculous. He barely knew her and as soon as he could convince her to go to France she'd be safely away. He couldn't possibly love her. He couldn't. Then he fell all the way into unconsciousness, his arms wrapped around a woman he couldn't possibly love.

. . . . . . . . . . .

After breakfast she made a list and insisted he come up with as many qualities his parents had that he could think of. "They're sane," she said, still in her pajamas, "so it's something they have that the others don't."

"They're blond," he said. She rolled her eyes at him and he spread his hands in mock confusion. "They are, Hermione," he said. "Granger. And my aunt Bella certainly wasn't."

He immediately wished he'd picked any other Death Eater as an example because she flinched at the name. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling like a heel.

"I lived through the torture," she said. "The woman is dead. I should be able to endure hearing her name."

"I should be thoughtful enough not to say it," he countered.

"Blond," she said, and wrote the word down with deliberation. "What else."

"Merlin," he muttered. "I don't know. They're rich. They're purebloods. They like music. They lie better than you would believe. They love each other. They like buying things. They like to wear black. They hated Dumbledore. They hold most people in utter contempt. What do you want?"

But she was writing as fast as she could.

"Okay," she said when she looked up from a scrawl so sloppy it would have made Draco's childhood governess pretend to have had a knife shoved in her heart. "Any rich, insane Death Eaters?"

Draco hesitated. "I'm not sure," he said at last. "Theo's dad is certainly rich, but he was never one of the really bad ones so… I don't know."

"We'll leave that one," she decided. "Any half bloods?"

"No one that admitted to it," he said, "But - "

But she was crossing that off with vigor. "Didn't you know?" she asked with satisfaction. "That thing was a half blood. I'd almost forgotten but… blood status isn't what's protecting them."

He grinned at her obvious pleasure at that. "How you would have hated it if it were," he said. "My special, magical blood." He made an elaborate, mocking bow from where he sat in her bed and she laughed.

"Music?" she asked but he shook his head at that. Bellatrix had been forced to learn to play piano, just like both her sisters, and had always seemed to enjoy it, at least as much as she'd enjoyed anything other than mayhem. They went through the whole list and she crossed off item after item, making notes next to them. When they were done she looked at the list and said nothing for a long moment. Then she set the parchment down and said, her voice a little shaky, "I think I want to take a shower. Will you be here when I'm - "

"Of course," he said.

She disappeared back into her bath and he heard the water running and once he was sure she wasn't going to come back out he snatched up the parchment and looked at her list. He could feel his mouth stretch out into a despairing grimace. It made sense, of course. Trust Hermione Granger to use logic to not only determine there was a solution to the problem of the taint of the Dark Arts on you soul, but to figure out what it was in all of two days. He laughed a little as he set the parchment back down and sank into one of the chairs by the fire. Too bad it was impossible. He'd let himself hope, which had been a mistake. The only real solution remained exactly what it had been before his bushy-haired, unwanted complication had shown up: don't do any more Dark spells and learn to ignore the promptings of madness already lurking at the edges of his consciousness. He was a bloody good occlumens; he could do that.

Better that than to pin all his hopes on some sodding emotion.

Better than than to risk having feelings for a woman who, if she were halfway sensible, felt nothing for him but, at most, friendship. After the way he'd treated her for years, he thought in disgust, he was bloody well lucky to have that. In her place he certainly wouldn't have been able to forgive.

They'd found the answer and now it was time to take her to France and reunite her with Weasley.

Draco shoved the whisper that he didn't have to do that down; all the whisper did was confirm the decision to hustle her off to safety far away from him was the right one. He'd turned his mind, again, to plotting how to sneak yet another Order member out despite increased security at the border when she emerged, towel wrapped around herself, wet hair down around her shoulders.

His eyes followed a single rivulet of water that traced it's way down the side of her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. He realized he was staring and yanked his attention back to her face. "I forgot to bring clothes in," she said, sounding embarrassed. "I'm really not trying to - "

"I could go," he said but at the panic on her face he added, "Or turn around?"

"That'd be… I'm sorry I'm so crazy," she said. "I don't mean to be. I mean, I hate it. This isn't… I'm sure once I've been out of… once I've been here longer I won't be like this."

"Take as long as you need," Draco said. He could hear her open drawers and pull things out and he wondered exactly what hell he'd fallen into that he was bound by honor not to turn around and look at her when he really, really wanted to. When she told him she was dressed he turned and wrinkled his nose at her in a mock complaint. "How can I tease you about you hair if you have it all pulled up like that?" he asked.

She'd somehow piled it on her head and held it in place with what looked like a narrow stick. The trousers she'd pulled on hugged the curve of her arse and the jumper clung and Draco realized he'd licked his lips and made himself stop. She saw the gesture and smiled, then crossed her arms, seemed to realize that looked defensive and uncrossed them.

"I need a shower too," he said into the uncomfortable silence. "Maybe you could wait for me in the living room?"

She nodded and followed him, a book in her hand, as far as the main room of his suite - their suite - and when he got back from a shower where he'd tried very hard not to think about her curves to no avail - she was huddled onto the sofa, pale and shivering.

"Hermione?" he asked, unsure what the matter was.

"Just.. . I heard people in the hall," she said, "and you were… I told you. It's not… I'm not like this. I wasn't like this before… I'll be better in a few days."

He nestled in next to her. "I should take you to France," he said. "It's the right thing to do."

He expected her to agree or nod or something - anything - other than put a hand on his cheek and say, "No, Draco."

He knew he should argue. He was tempted to point out she couldn't exactly stop him. But the lure of having her here, curves and smiles and wet hair dripping onto his neck, was so strong he thought what could it hurt to put off her exile a few more days? She was here, she was safe in the Manor, safe with him. "If that's what you want," he said. "Should we go back to the gardens after breakfast?"

But after she coaxed him through another meal, distracting him and teasing him until he'd eaten the whole thing despite the usual roiling in his gut what they did was sit. She sat and told him stories of growing up as a Muggle and he listened in what started as amused condescension and became wonder and sympathy and finally grief as she talked and talked about ballet classes and the confusion of accidental magic and travel with her parents and going to Hogwarts and then the prejudice and the war and her losses.

"I'm sorry," he said. They'd inched closer and closer while she spoke until he'd ended up with an lapful of Hermione. He'd done a drying charm on her hair because it had been wet and uncomfortable and when that made it poof into a giant, frizzy halo he'd patted it down in embarrassment as she'd laughed and laughed.

She didn't pretend he had nothing to apologize for. She didn't offer up a token, "That's okay," or "It didn't matter." It had mattered. He'd been awful and childish and his cruelties had been mere foreshadowing of the hell that had awaited her in the war and now afterward. "I'm sorry," he said again and then he started to say, "I promise," but stopped.

"What?" she asked, twisting in his lap to look at him. "What do you promise?"

He shook his head but when she poked him in the ribs he yelped and tugged on her hair. "Witch," he said. "Bushy-haired witch."

She grinned and made a motion as if she were going to poke him again and he grabbed her and hauled her up and suddenly her face was level with his and they both stopped laughing and he stared at her. "I was going to promise," he stammered, "Just, that it wouldn't happen again." He swallowed and tried to bring the smile and levity back but it was gone as he looked away from her eyes. "One of the good things about being the winner, I suppose. I can keep you safe. If you want me to."

Because he wasn't looking, because he was trying not to think too much about anything, he was surprised when she brushed her nose against his and then her mouth and then he made something akin to a sobbing sound and had his hands on her shoulders and was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her even though it had to be the worst idea in a lifetime of bad choices because she was going to leave, he was going to take her away himself, and he was an idiot.

"I can keep you whole," she murmured against his skin after a while. "If you let me."

He almost stopped breathing. "You can't," he said.

"You saw the list," she said and his fingers tightened on her. "You know the answer." She searched his face and he watched her slowly redden as she came to the wrong conclusion and began to mutter that she'd overstepped and clearly he didn't -

"I do," he blurted out and then turned as red as she was. "It's just…." He let her go and ran a nervous hand through his hair. "You've been here all of two days and you were in a cell… you aren't in any condition to… I won't take advantage. I won't."

She nodded and lay her head back against his chest.

"I should take you to France," he said. Her 'no' was soft but implacable. "I thought you were supposed to be the slave," he muttered. "Why am I the one getting bossed around?" She tipped her chin up to look at him and he refused to do anything quite so cliched as drown in her eyes but he might have waded into them and decided the water was fine.

"I agree," she said. "We'll do nothing. We'll wait. We'll see what happens. We're young and time is our ally."

"Whenever you say you want to escape Britain," he said, "I'll take you."

She made a small, pleased sound and Draco pushed some of her puffed up hair out of his face. That drying charm had been a bad idea. "This is madness," he said.

She laughed. "There's always a little madness in love," she said.

. . . . . . . . . .

The Death Eaters lost. Of course they did. Most of them had been driven round the bend by the whispers of Dark magic in their heads. They few that maintained their sanity were less cruel, less violent, more tempered. The law condemning the Order of the Phoenix members to slavery faded away with a whimper rather than the dramatic bang of a gavel; Draco Malfoy had a clause inserted at the end of a bill on importing rare potions ingredients that limited the time a person could be indentured to six months and, without an argument, all the slaves were free again.

The papers, still hardly a free press, published articles claiming the young Malfoy was the brightest political light wizarding Britain had ever seen. "Forging a new path ahead," the article read, and "whirlwind romance with Order freedom fighter."

"So I'm a freedom fighter now," Hermione had said when she read that.

Draco had kissed her temple. "Better that than a terrorist," he said. "I can't be a shining political star with a terrorist on my arm."

Hermione had laughed; it was the sound that filled his days with a happiness he hadn't known since childhood, since before the nightmare of the Dark Lord and his followers had begun, since before he'd held his own arm out to become one of the damned.

Most of the former slaves opted to stay abroad even when the law expired. Their trust in their home country had been shattered. The few that remained in Britain were ones who, like Hermione and like Luna, had found love. Narcissa Malfoy had not found protectors for the witches she had protected at random and, though not all of her matchmaking had been successful, the only one she'd really cared about had. Her son had found love in the arms of a woman brave enough to offer it and stubborn enough to insist he accept it and so he escaped the legacy of the Dark Lord.

What was blood purity when weighed against the sanity of your only son? It was nothing, and there was, after all, nothing Narcissa Malfoy would not do.

.

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 ** _~ finis ~_**


End file.
